


Pattapan.

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Short & Sweet, Sugar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 03:51:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10563122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: The Iceman struggles with his wish to give as good as he feels he's gotten, and shower Greg with joy. He knows, though, it's not his forte...





	

Mycroft Holmes had very few illusions about himself. He considered it a matter of duty: working as he did, in such sensitive areas of government, and wielding power as he did, he had an obligation to know his own weaknesses. He had to protect his nation from his own failings. It was, after all, what he did.

Sherlock showed off.

Mycroft…protected. For better or worse, come good or come ill, he protected—his Queen, his nation, his department, his family. His lover.

And so, being Mycroft, he looked at his failings and knew himself unworthy, humbled by the obvious goodness and decency of the man he’d been lucky enough to attract. Greg was brilliant, without Sherlock or Mycroft’s vanity—brilliant enough to work undercover in the heart of the MET detective unit without ever himself being detected. He was honest—or as honest as his professions allowed. He was decent…provided you had no moral objections to bisexuality, or did not blame him for his own ex-wife’s indiscretions. He was as kind as a lazy summer day in early childhood, on holiday in the country near the sea or a stream or some small lake, with the knowledge that it was all yours—every dragonfly, every running shorebird or pipping partridge, every darting minnow or scuttling crab or inching starfish. Every shining wave. The hiss of the grass on the shore. The bright, clean breeze. All yours, filled with fresh fruit for brekkers and honey and scones with tea. Greg filled Mycroft’s life with a stunning richness he had never even imagined possible—that shocked him with the intensity of joy life could offer.

Greg gave so much: Time. Patience. Attention. He listened. He planned ahead. He knew at a glance when Mycroft had a bad day—and reacted accordingly, whether it was with a gentle hug, or a plate of fried runny eggs piled onto heavily buttered toast, or with a simple question—“Do you need time alone?” He guessed things Mycroft would enjoy with a precision Mycroft himself could not have managed, leaving his shy lover gaping and muttering, “How did you know I’d enjoy learning to sing madrigals?” Mycroft had not known—how did Greg know?

What Mycroft knew was that he, unlike Greg, was not…generous. He was no fount of blessings. He ws no summer day his lover could wake to knowing that life was now crammed with precious moments, shining delights. He was awkward when his lover was in pain, unsure what to say, and afraid and ashamed to ask guidance. He was bashful when his lover was in high delight, too shy to join in the hijinks. It shamed him. He could protect Lestrade, and did. The man was guarded in ways he would never know. Mycroft made sure of that, heart aching at all the ways he could not guard Lestrade without taking the man’s life and agency away from him. Someday he feared he would lose him—to a stray bullet, to a knife in a back alley, to Sherlock’s recklessness, to mere mortal risk. A car accident. A virus. A cancer already growing in the darkness of his body.

Thinking of it made Mycroft’s heart beat harder, his muscles tense, his stomach churn. It made him look for every danger he actually could defend his lover from, every palliative he could provide. He had lists of every specialist in the world, for every horrible disease or ripping injury. Depending on time available he could pull in services from as near as London or as far away as Beijing or Sydney. Nothing that could be done would be denied Lestrade. No finances would be spared. No force would be withheld to get Lestrade what he needed, if he ever needed.

It wasn’t the same, though. It wasn’t what Mycroft wished he could be. It wasn’t light on water, the lace pattern of lichen on stone, the sudden song of a thrush in springtime, a blackbird singing in the back garden at midnight. It wasn’t to compare with Greg’s warmth, his generosity, the cornucopia of pleasures that poured from him.

Mycroft worked at it. He tried. He took his lover out for fish and chips, though he himself had to pick at his meal for fear of both acid reflux and bulging buttocks. But once a week he took Greg to the best little fish and chip shop left in London, because he knew Greg loved it, each bite he took as rich with memories and nostalgia as one of Proust’s madeleines. He let himself be hauled to the music hall, and forced himself to give in to the rowdy laughter and the low humor—a surrender to something so alien to him he didn’t easily adapt. He was not a Benny Hill sort of fellow, when it came down to it. He trained himself to show the smile he felt in his inner soul when he saw Lestrade, forcing the feeling to show on his still, disciplined face, to shine in his eyes. He made himself ask: What do you want? What do you need? How can I help?

And still, he was what he was. Simple. Plain. Infelicitous. A rough-coated border collie fresh off the moors, paired with a gleaming, kindly, beautiful golden retriever. A protector, not a giver. The guardian, not the treasure worth guarding. The vault, not the bounty that must be defended at all costs.

And so he was not ready on the day he took Lestrade to see his beloved Arsenal play against Chelsea. It had been such a bad day, he thought, dejected. The weather had been bollocks, spitting rain on and off. They’d huddled together under Mycroft’s umbrella, eating pie after pie and drinking vile coffee just to keep their hands from freezing and hypothermia from setting in. Arsenal, after a promising start, had been beaten soundly. Mycroft, who always had to struggle to show enthusiasm for a game well played, had been forced to struggle even harder not to show too vividly how badly he could see his lover’s team had botched it. He was, after all, not stupid. He might not like football, but he understood the principles perfectly well even before he’d boned up for Lestrade’s sake. All in all, so near as he could tell, the day was a complete bust, with nothing redeeming to pull from the ruins as compensation for his lover. A poor gift, if well meant.

He was not ready, when Lestrade, walking out to the sleek black car waiting for them at the kerb, said, blushing, “Thanks, Mike. You’re…” He paused, and said, voice rough. “You’re too damned good for me, mate. Too good _to_ me.”

Mycroft stopped cold, brow furrowing. “What?”

Lestrade ducked his head, hands deep in his pockets. “I wish I could match you. Can’t. But…Thanks. I just wanted you to know I appreciate it all. Everything.”

“What?” Mycroft couldn’t begin to wrap his mind around it. “I’ve…I’ve done nothing. Even today turned out to be a mess. The dog’s dinner. The weather. The game. Arsenal _lost_ ,” he added, offended that the team could not even be bothered to put on a decent show for their fans. “That third goal…” He gritted his teeth, refusing to say how bad it had been.

Lestrade shouted in sudden laughter. “Oh, God. That third goal…” He shook his head. “And you ready to start quoting from ‘Five Easy Principles of Good Footballing.’” He chuckled, and looked at Mycroft with fond eyes. “And you not even liking football. Mike…” He slowed, eyes aching with love and bemusement and longing. At last he said, simply, “You’re too good to me. You give me so much.”

“I… I give you nothing, compared to what you give me.” He meant it. What was a game of football, even if he did loathe the sport himself? Or a day out in the rain eating repulsive pork pies?

“Oh, Mike…” Lestrade smiled at him, warm and kind and generous and loving. “Oh, you silly, silly Mycroft.” He sighed, pulled a hand from his pocket, and swept it up over Mycroft’s shoulders, pulling him near. “Silly old Mike. Come on, love. The car’s waiting. Let’s go home.”

And Mycroft let himself be led to the waiting sedan, heart full and mind amazed that his gift, poor as it was, was Lestrade’s idea of treasure. All the way home he heard drums, and the Christmas carol of the little drummer boy sounding in his heart.

“I’ll play my best for you, pa-rup-pa-puppum, on my drum…”

**Author's Note:**

> I am in the process of shifting my real life endeavors in ways that are likely to affect my work here. That does not mean I am quitting. It does mean that I'm going to need to spend more time on other projects. If you are interested in my current material, including what I hope will eventually be revision and de-fanficcing of some of the projects I started here, I'm going to offer my Facebook fan page as a link to my other work. I do NOT want to offend by ignoring AO3's rules about commercial promotion, and I think this is the logical way out of that. So--if you are interested in my current projects, wihch I hope to launch in mid-to-late April, follow my Facebook fan page and wait for the announcement of launch.
> 
> https://www.facebook.com/pegfiction/
> 
> You can also find links to my current work here:
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/tammanyt


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